Sherlock preferences

Writingmas - Day 7

Mycroft oneshot - suit for the Queen

You were laying, face up, on your soft, brushed cotton double bed as Mycroft strutted backwards and forwards across the oak flooring. As he moved, the lit candles flickered at his presence and made golden ribbons dance across the ceiling. Mycroft had been invited to an extremely prestigious Christmas dinner with the Queen to thank him for clearing Charles' name. Mycroft, obviously, could not refuse. He was, however, finding it hard to choose an outfit.
"What about your black one?" You suggested, pointing out a jacket as you sat upright on the King mattress.
"No pure black clothing in the palace" he brushed you off with a matter-of-fact facial expression. You thought hard, contemplating every suit you'd ever seen him wear.
"I know!" You blurted out excitedly, "what about that one you wore to Sherlock and John's wedding a few years ago? Do you still have it?"
Mycroft thought hard with a focused expression adorning is perfect face. He disappeared into his walk-in closet for a few moments before returning with a dark, grey three piece and spotted tie.

"That's it." You smiled triumphantly and praised yourself internally for your supreme decision "that's the one..."
He rolled his eyes at your childish energy and closed the door to change. A while later, he emerged, battling back a soft smile which had tried to creep it's way into the corners of his lips and eyes. He looked so unutterably handsome that your words were brief and lacked thought; they just rolled off your tongue like a child accidentally rolling out of bed.
"Yep... Love it..." You muttered, in awe.
You rose from your judgmental position in the bed and felt the urge to give him a mini round of applause, clapping your hands together with vivacity and exhilaration.
"I believe you are right precious."
He admired himself in the glass, an image of clean-cut professionalism stared crisply back at him. "I'm ready" he stated, after inhaling and exhaling thoroughly to expel his nerves.
"I'm sure she'll love it" you smiled, placing your hand delicately on his slightly padded shoulder. He reciprocated the motion by edging closer, placing his hands on your hips, allowing you to weave your arms round under his suit jacked and tightly cling to his waist. Your hug left him defenceless and had no other choice but to move his hands too. He gently grasped your waist and spun you round, leaning your body backwards so that your right leg stuck up in he air and your head barely touched the floor; only the tips of your hair grazed the oak. You smiled deductively as you kissed in the manner a young couple might at the end of a 1830's black and white romance flick. You half expected a standing ovation. As he slowly stood you back upright, you leaned against him, putting a little of your weight into his shoulder and arm as you found your footing once again.
"Well. That was nice" he commented, straightening his suit and fighting back a blushing smile.
"I agree entirely" you replied cheekily, giving him one last peck on the cheek before noticing the time "gosh, it's nearly half five... You should be getting off" these last words were uttered with a fringe of sadness brimming at the throat as if each letter had been stitched to your heart and letting him go caused you great pain.
"Yes. Well... Wish me luck (y/n)"
"I thought you didn't believe in luck?.."
"Well... I have you... How can a man be luckier?..."